Operation Cup Of Tea
by Live-Like-its-heaven-on-earth
Summary: -no pairings unless you want to pretend there are- August 2011, riots hit England and the poor Nation has to put up with all the pain not for the first time , at least India being over for the cricket means free tea...


**So the anniversary of the riots is coming up, so I thought I'd write you a small piece on them- hopefully it's enjoyable, if not… well enjoy anyway?**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Operation Cup of Tea**

The tension is thick, thick enough that his recently sharpened cutlass, hey he's got to keep it in mint condition you never know what's going to happen after all, would have problems cutting through it, no matter how sturdy and trustworthy the blade had been in past battles. His messy blonde hair is sprawled into stressful stuck up strands, and his hands shake no matter how much he tries to stop them.

He can feel his people. God he feels them… the anger, the fear, the insecurity, the suspicion, the sadness and where he'd rather not he can even feel the smug joy coming from those odd few who were _proud_ of what they had done. But it's not just them he feels. Oh bloody hell he can feel the land, the fire burning; he remembers desperately chugging down litre after litre of water, begging it would stop soon, begging someone would just put them out already…

He remembers the muttered whispers every morning, when everything's finished and people finally brave leaving their houses, looking around eyes mixed with disgust, fear and sorrow. So much sorrow, as they realise how much they've lost and the relief of those lucky few who had only lost a fence or nothing at all. But those whispers, they don't leave for ages; they travel across each city that's been damaged.

_I'm ashamed to be English…_

_Why was I born in Liverpool…?_

_Why can't people bring their children up right…?_

_Why… ME…?_

Those words haunt him so much, that he fears they're his own… Was he afraid to represent the country he was supposed to be? Was that why he started an Empire? To escape the reality of his small rain dusted Island?

But then someone walks out, one in a million, broom held high, chin up proud. _I'm not…_ He mutters through a sea of confusion. _I'm not ashamed to be English, British OR from Liverpool…_ And he moves through the crowd, leaving it behind him and heads to the wreckage. _So I'm going to help get my city back to the way it should be…_

And the determined ripples spread, until they're thunderous waves and everyone's picking up their own brooms and cleaning equipment and they set to work and hope that the next morning _their_ city hasn't been destroyed further and that _their_ hard work hasn't been put to waste. But, they all know even if it has they're just going to pick up their brooms once again and start all over. They're British and a little riot, no matter how large, is going to stop them.

"England," he hears India call from the doorway, and he can't manage to pry his eyes away from the news, where the BBC are once again showing the same footage of London, Manchester, Birmingham all put through an almost montage like sequence that start to spike fear through those not effected… what if their city was next? What if they lost everything they owned? Would those other poor families and people ever get the justice they deserve?

"England," India speaks louder and England realises he's shaking more than a second ago and that he had once again started to hear his people's thoughts and feelings and… God why were they always so loud when he was going through so much physical and emotional pain?

He hears a resigned sigh and some quick and urgent mutterings. And England almost looks over at that: why would India talk to himself? Then he suddenly remembers the invention of phones (how the bloody hell did he forget THAT). He tries to hear what language the man's speaking in if it's Hindi his boss wants him back, if it's English it's probably about him. But he can't hear the man: he's talking too quiet and England's ears are ringing so damn much.

There's some movement after everything but the TV has gone silent and a second later England feels the couch he's on dip slightly, but he refuses to turn and continues to watch the areas he's known for so long continuously burn… forever burning, why… why would they burn it…? What has THAT got to do with the Government…?

_Nothing._

One word, with so much weight pulling it down… they have no reason do they? They're just doing it… for violence… for fun… for shiny new TVs and clothes… and weren't his people meant to be calm and collected? And… and…

"Oi," he feels India's knee nudge his gently as one of his hands indicate to the cup of tea waiting on the table, it looks ice cold, but oh so inviting.

"Thanks…" He manages to croak, his mouth feels burnt and his throat hurts as though he had been stuck in a desert without any water for a long time, and he feels startled… why would his throat hurt this much, it's been awhile since the burnings?

He hears laughter beside him, not mocking, not cruel, just a good humoured laugh and it makes England feel a little better. He hasn't heard laughter in a while has he?

"You haven't drunk anything in almost 20 hours England, it's not THAT surprising," the man beside him chuckles and England feels shocked… how had he been out of it for so long?

Without a moment's hesitation he takes his precious china cup (it's the one the Queen had given him near her coronation, in the hopes of them being successful through her rein) and gulps the drink down. It hurts at first, like sand paper was being pushed down his throat and he half wonders whether having a glass of water first would've been best so he could enjoy his tea more slowly, but the mixture of tea leaves, milk, water and sugar is so good he knew he wouldn't have passed it up for anything else.

"You want another cup?" India questions and England just nods, he doesn't want to waste the moisture he just gained.

The nation beside him gets up and leaves for the kitchen, all the while making idle chatter and the sound of India's voice takes over England's ears. He closes his eyes for a second and listens to the slight elongated pronunciations India makes as he speaks English, he never did learn to get rid of the accent completely and England's thankful: he couldn't stand hearing any more English accents at the moment and the Hindi lingering through the English words was fascinatingly pleasant.

And as he sits there with closed eyes he finds himself wanting to drift off at the sound of India's voice, but he feels shop keepers worry, they've shut early because they feel unsure, or because the police advised them too. He feels the finality as the shutters slam hard into the ground and the locks click in a way that sounds almost sorry for those who still wanted to shop and almost sad that they're losing out on money; the employees of each shop remember the carnage from footage and know it's not enough to stop anyone from breaking through if they so wish, but they hope. And then there are those shoppers who drive around in their cars looking between one shop and another in the hope to restock on food they only noticed they were running low on and eventually they _have_ to admit defeat and hope a shop they can buy from is still around early tomorrow morning.

"Don't have it yet," he's brought back from his- or is it their- thoughts, as the man sits back down on the couch.

And England doesn't understand why he can't have it yet; India _knows_ he'd drink tea at any temperature (I mean how could the man not after producing so much of it for him over the years). It's horrible, England realises, that India knows this as he purposely makes sure it's as far from England's reach as possible, the only way he'd be able to get it is for a drastic, desperate drive that could destroy the cup or ask the man to hand it over.

"You'll probably experience more burning soon," the Nation explains calmly, in the way that reminds you just how old India is. "Do you want to make it hurt more than it has to?"

England sighs in distress that much is true… so he can't even enjoy a simple cup of tea now?

"It's only until its cool enough to not burn in anyway," and he can practically feel India's eyes roll at the statement, and that just annoys England, because India _knows_ how important tea is to him!

And it's silent, as England continues to watch the screen, glancing longingly at his cup every now and then. It would be better in his stomach, right? India sighs as he notices how England watches the cup, but then again he can't blame the guy he's been stuck inside with no pleasures as his buildings are burnt down and his shops are robbed, by his own people at that.

He waits a few more moment before making sure the tea isn't _too_ hot and passes it over to the tea-loving Nation. He takes the drink happily and starts to take a slow and calming sip. At least it's slow and calming until his grip tightens harshly on the cup and he starts shaking again, his emerald eyes fogging over, like condensation against a window in a sauna.

One of his hands unconsciously clings to his wrist, as though he's injured or he was trying to stop his hand from hitting someone, while his other hand struggles to keep the tea in his cup. India wants to take the cup out of his hand before he spills it everywhere, but England subconsciously takes another sip of drink, but he sounds close to hyperventilating that he's worried that he's going to accidently choke himself on his beloved drink, now _that_ would be ironic.

He'd felt awful every time he interrupted England's thoughts. After all it was probably better than leaving him to just be dragged further into the endless and useless thoughts, but he was clearly suffering horribly and probably needed a distraction of some sort, after David Cameron phoned him earlier to let him know he was returning early from his holiday and after Boris Johnson had come over to check up on him he seemed much more frantic and nervous, and of course he needed to _drink_ his beverage not pour it over himself.

"England," he nudges England's knee with his own, carefully of course he doesn't want to startle the other Nation too much.

His eyes slowly clear back to their strong emerald and he averts them quickly as he had been doing for the last few days, as his people had been doing when he went around the shop to stock up on tea, milk and biscuits (according to England the main things he would need in the house through these petty riots). No one, including England, seemed to want to make eye contact, almost scared of what they'd see in each other's eyes, or that making eye contact would suggest they were ready to fight back against the riots. But no one wanted to admit that the thought had passed their minds… to fight violence with violence.

"Sorry…" he hears England mutter and looks over at the blonde who continues to stare at the TV and wonders what he's going on about, when he sees what sentence is crawling along the bottom of the screen. Surely the cricket match wasn't _still_ bothering him?

But it was. England knew India decided to make this his week holiday of the year, it was summer, he'd get to relax a bit and watch his favourite game, while having a friendly drink with England (India agreed, because England gets emotional when he's drunk and it was always hilarious to see how he'd react to losing like that). And not only had he been stuck inside his house, as England freaked and practically had a heart attack, but now the cricket match that had originally made India have his holiday now was cancelled (or at least one of the matches)? It seemed like a complete waste of a break, which they as Nations rarely had.

"If it's about the cricket match, I told you it's fine… The match will still probably be on and it's not your fault anyway-"

"But they're my people," he manages to mutter, his head starting to throb as the first people start their "riots".

Gangs, moving like shadows, obeying their leaders' orders, they know the police are on high alert, that the people are slowly becoming united, that the incident is becoming internationally updated, that fellow comrades from days before have been caught or implied to have been a part of the events. They question how long they have left; they feel relieved to have parents, adults and family members joining them on this nights hunt.

England can feel as the first building is shed of its armour and clothing, pillaged and set to the stakes, sentenced to an unjust fiery demise like witches of old. He feels as fear grips those around, but people try to help the police that are on scene, there's not many around yet in some places, in others there's plenty and the hooligans take advantage of this.

They're not really rioters; the rioters stopped protesting long ago. These were just yobs who wanted an excuse to do what they want, to get some things that would normally take them awhile of saving to buy and to attack without the immediate fear of backlash. These were just ruffians using mixed messages that sounded honourable in a they-haven't-a-clue-what-they're-going-on-about-do-they way and it was reflecting awfully for everyone else.

"And are all your people rioting? And did they purposely try to stop our match? And where it would better had it not happened at all, isn't it better it happened now, instead of when the match started?" India suddenly questioned and England didn't have an answer to that, but he went to speak back anyway, but just as he opened his mouth to retort, he groaned and scrunched his face up in discomfort as a helicopter flew over far closer than he'd prefer.

They were flying making sure they could keep any riots that started from happening early on. But the sound as each blade from the rotor spun brought a wave of nausea as though he was spinning with them, as though he was the one searching out for the criminals that roamed each alley way… Or at least used to roam each alley way, they just stalked the streets now sniffing out what prey would be the best to go for next.

He jumps slightly as he feels a hand rest against his back, but it's only India, so he relaxes slightly as the Nation soothingly rubs circles into his back, trying to help stop the tension that hadn't really left England since this all started.

"You really need to stop saying sorry England, I don't see you out their joining the riots and I don't see a lot of your people actually out there joining in, do you?" India fingers tighten as they come across a ball of tension and England hisses slightly as he unfurls it, then relaxes again as the pain subsides.

"That's because they know how much it's going to cost to clear everything up and how all the prices are going to go up afterwards. How harsher life is going to be after all this. It's quite selfish really-" He's cut short as another hiss escapes his lips, as yet another knot of tension is found and undone.

"You know not all your people are like that," India gestured towards the screen where the BBC was showing the riot cleanup groups again, thousands of people, young and old alike, with brooms, plastic bags, gloves all working hard to make everything right again.

They had been trying hard; the initial shock had made people originally hate being English to be associated with groups of people stealing until they got together to clean and remembered there were in fact more caring people out than the vile. He remembers the current of horror and disgust fill his people as they watched a poor lad clearly bleeding get tricked into believing he was getting helped only to have his bag opened and taken from. He remembers those from London, Liverpool and Birmingham sending their best wishes to those back home while they were on holiday or visiting other countries.

He remembers police officers gratefully accepting tea from thankful citizens as they stretch their selves' way past their limit as their shift slowly starts pushing over 30 hours. He remembers as some stressful citizens' start taking out cigarettes with shaky fingers and lighting up; taking a long drag in the hopes to get rid of some of the stress that has taken over. And Arthur can almost smell that smoke mingling in with the smoke from those deadly flames and it's unbearable, but thankful his house doesn't smell like that, it smell fresh and that's strange as usually when India comes over he…

"You're not smoking…" England states only realising that he hasn't seen India with one cigarette since the riots began and the man usually couldn't stand having at least one a day (he'd argue it was just bad habits being hard to break, after all he had been smoking for centuries, but England knew he just enjoyed the smell of his cheap fags burning).

"No." And it's a simple word with so many implications.

"Why…?" England questions again after a second of silence, when India didn't continue.

"Because I remember your reaction to smoke when your capital was burnt down last time."

And India can't help but remember. They had finally all been freed from Japan's cage; Australia had grinned and given him a "manly" hug, announced they had finally officially won the whole war and that they were going to go and meet England. Australia hadn't thought to warn any of them on what London had become.

The boat they were on pulled into the capital. Buildings bombed, roads crumbled, families shattered. The long since drawn out embers gone, but they had left their blackened scars. India couldn't bring himself to see England straight away, he knew what he was about to do, he was going to get his independence and he couldn't find it in himself to go and tell England that… not with all the burns, not with all the hurt.

He lit a cigarette that Australia had given him earlier in celebration and took a long drag. England found him around that time. The smoke billowed around the two, England's original annoyance disappeared, his eyes grew wide in fear and the memories attacked him. India pulled the man quickly into his arms, trying to calm him as he put the cigarette out, but the scent was still there on the two of them and as England breathed in the tainted air it reminded him so much of those encasing flames, e had managed to remain strong throughout the war, but now it was over all he could focus on was the pain.

And India remembers the way England's eyes fogged over the same as they had been the last few days, the ragged choke filled breathes that accompanied the pain filled screams and the once joyful tears for winning the war turned into another heavy burden over all they had lost. And India just couldn't stand seeing it, the Nation strong enough to take over him and the others fallen into such a pitiful state, so he held tight as he announced his wish for independence… there wasn't really anything England could do to argue at that point… it felt cheap.

"You know... if your Capital keeps getting destroyed people are going to assume you like being helped…" He jokes hesitantly; he doesn't want either him or England delving into the old flames filled with conquest, death and glory of their past.

But neither can stop the thought from the last time England's Capital was burning. As England clung to India, the both of them more frail than they had ever been before, the hunger and the torture. They'd refused to let anyone else see them like this, but right then they were sharing a weakness that they couldn't stand having.

When the smoke passed, once the hurt and caring left, once the two of them felt they could let go of each other, they did. England's emerald eyes looked anywhere but India as he muttered an embarrassed apology, as he muttered his excuse that this wasn't the first time London had burnt down so he really hated smoke… he feels weak and that's why he agrees to not interfering with India's independence movement.

And India's ecstatic on the agreement, on actually getting through to the great British Empire, but he knows how much England's hurting, so for one more moment of weakness he hugs the man again and hopes that he never goes through that again.

And he really wasn't the British Empire anymore was he? He was just simple little England, who sometimes represented his brothers as the United Kingdom, but not as much anymore… And the riots were getting to him.

The worst since the 80s according to the news. But… her remembers the 80s riots. He was a part of them, fed up with the Government; he chose to hide at Vivienne's house and in return he'd model her clothes for her and he refused to be a part of normal Nation life, until his punk "phase" had left him.

"And we wouldn't want that," he snorted sarcastically at India's comment and fell back into the couch more, causing India to pull his hand back. "Would we?"

India smiled lightly at the comment and relaxed back in the couch: just the TV's noise filling the room, but more like background music with the room not feeling nearly as tense as it had been for the last few days. He and England just sat there in that companionable silence, with a cup of tea in each of their hands both drinking the beverage.

"Scotland told me to inform you he's going to be over as soon as he possibly can with some of his own police officers," that caught England's attention and for the first time in a while he looked up and looked over at India.

The man looked just as tired as he felt, dark bags hung under his eyes, as his old amber eyes dropped slightly exhausted and his hair that was usually pushed to the sides hung somewhat in front of his eyes covering the bindi that India was proud to show off. He wore casual, but wrinkled clothes that if the man was in a good state England knew India would've never stood for, he always liked showing off his best.

"Why is he coming down? I thought he'd be assuring no riots start on his own land…" England ponders out loud.

"He says he is setting some officers around his own country, but says you're useless and you can't do anything right without some Scottish backbone," India rolls his eyes in amusement.

"Was that who you were just on the phone with a little while ago then?" England questioned, suddenly rather curious as to why Scotland would want to talk to him personally if that was the message.

"No, it was Netherlands, he wanted you to personally announce that he would've beaten you in the football match," India rolls his eyes. "I told him he has horrible time for gloating, but he pointed out you would've gone over to his house to announce that if he was in that situation... you two are _so _stubborn and horrible."

"You're one to talk," England snorted in a sarcastic drawl. "Clearly we had a positive effect through our Empire days."

India laughs lightly, easing further into the couch shaking his head slightly. Before deciding it would be best to explain who else had phoned, it seemed like a good distraction for the time being.

"Wales, said he'd be over soon," he continued, taking another swig of tea. "Says he'll bring more tea, said something about you never having enough... which is strangely true."

England laughed faintly; everyone really did only associate him with tea didn't they? Though he wasn't complaining it was a wonderful creation and he'd have thanked whoever discovered it personally if he knew the man.

"He also said something about North wanting to rush over," Netherlands continued to relay. "Wale said he was willing to use the water cannon for you, if you want him too…"

And England really felt like laughing, of course North probably wanted to use it for the sake of using it, he was like a magpie always attracted to shiny things, but that was probably because he was still young and hadn't had an enjoyable childhood with all his own riots. But he was suddenly hit with an onslaught of more fear, of more pain, of more anger.

Another riot had started. The fear peeked from those who holed up in their house, hoping that they'd survive another night. The pain as buildings, shops, monuments and police stations alike were smashed, burnt, destroyed. The anger rising as friends and family suffer, some being hospitalised, some watching their ruined house being looted, some watching as oncoming missiles hurtle towards them only to black out as everything fades away, some hiding behind the police tears pouring down their faces as they just managed to run from crowds of oncoming violence and then from the police themselves as they stood protected gear covered them completely as they stand and take the force as wooden and metal projectiles are hurtled towards them, but they try stand firm, attempting to be a human shield against the assault… they _need_ to let others escape.

And it feels as though he's suffering another civil war, his people against each other. One group disliking the other, disgusted with each other. One side questioning why the other won't join them, the rest questioning what sane human would DO _that_.

"England," he hears an urgent voice call from a surface where he isn't at.

He slowly realises he's numb, or was numb as feeling slowly starts coming back. He feels liquid going down his arms, a harsh grip around his wrists and the rough feel of carpet under him. He blinks slowly, trying to understand what was going on, he looks up and sees it's India who's latched on his wrists, his tea is soaking into the carpet and there's blood running down his arms.

"Wha…?" He begins to question.

"You had another attack," India explains in that blunt way he uses only when he can't think of a better way of saying anything, and that is a feat in its self. "You started clawing at your arms…"

India pulls himself up and pulls England to follow. England staggers, but doesn't fall as India keeps a firm grip on his wrists and helps England back onto the couch and pushes him to lie down.

"Be right back," he says as he picks up England's mug and glares at the stain England's carpet is soaking up mockingly.

He leaves the room and the TV is suddenly loud again. Manchester, oh his precious Manchester, why do this to him? Wolverhampton? Nottingham? Leicester? Salford? Brighton? Why? Oh God why?

But it wasn't the cities fault… It was the odd few from those cities, so very few from those cities in fact… Such a small percentage was making others think poorly of a whole city… what was everything coming too?

He jolted out of his thoughts as his phone started making a fuss. He slowly opened his eyes India hadn't come back in yet. He groaned he couldn't think or _attempt_ to relax with that going off. Reaching over for the phone, he flipped it open.

_Message from Australia_

He groaned and opened it up, he hadn't heard from anyone personally in a while. There was an image attached to a short message of: "_Mum's aren't meant to get ill or hurt, mate, that's our job!"_

He shook his head, why Australia insisted on calling him mum was beyond him, but the message had sort of put a smile on his face. He opened the image only to see a picture of a grinning Australia mug (was that tea?) in his hand, a sheep sat happily on the table with him and England knew it was New Zealand... though why Australia never figured that out was beyond him.

Just as he was about to question in curiosity he received another message… and another… and another… what the bloody hell…

Skimming through each message he noticed each of them contained an image of the Nation who sent it with a cup or mug of tea in hand.

_Mon Lapin, I want to come over and help, big brother knows how much these riots hurt the bones, but Scotland told me I would only make it worse. So, I will think of you as drinking your beloved tea…_

France.

_We'll have a person football match at a later date, so I can prove I would've beaten you, you may have invented the game, but you'll no good at the game. I also think you should pay me for the tea I'm drinking- I'm drinking it for you anyway._

Netherlands.

_I'm visiting for the Olympics next year whether they're on or not, I had the firecrackers set up in your house already._

Hong Kong.

_The awesome me sends you his condolences even if I would've been able to deal with it already. Oh, Denmark says he's given up on drinking tea; he's gone back to his beer, and says if you don't come and join us again soon he'll resort to killing your people with his axe again. Awesome._

Prussia. Denmark.

_Dude, there's fires everywhere, how is that possible, you're ENGLAND! Ah, get better I'd be the hero and come over, but Canada said you'd yell at me if I did, and made me tell those from my country to not go to London. Can you imagine that? Silly Canada doesn't understand how amazing my people are! And how can you drink all this tea, I've bought 120 teabags of the stuff, it's unbearable, try coffee it's much better. Ah, Obama's calling, phone if you need anything!_

America.

_Inglaterra, I'm heading over and I don't care what you say and I don't care if I'm suffering financially, have you _seen_ the news! We are going to sit and have a relaxing cup of tea, like we used to ok?_

Portugal.

_Where's the rain when you need it, eh? I hope you get better soon, I'll come and visit once you're better (not that I think you'll notice)._

Canada.

And they just kept coming through. Nation after Nation. Those he had past alliances with, those he had tried to destroy… and… and…

"You alright in here England?" India asked, coming back with new cups of tea.

England sniffed, trying not to be caught crying, but the whole of the Commonwealth (new and old) had sent him messages, Nations he didn't get along well with sent him messages no matter what time it was where they were and the support just meant a lot… wasn't he hated?

India peeked in at the messages and smiled.

"Operation cup of tea," he laughed, and England raised a brow. "People are acting in a 'British' manner, by staying and drinking tea instead of taking part in the riots…"

He passed England his cup, sat down next to the man, while wrapping his arm around his shoulder, before England had time to question what India was up to, the other Nation had produced his phone, the camera faced towards them.

"Want to join the rest of the world in staying calm and carrying on?" He cheekily asked, but took the picture before England could answer.

England rolled his eyes, hitting India's arm away from his shoulder as the older Nation posted the image onto Facebook and Twitter, before the man paused.

"Hey England?"

"What?"

"Kaiser Chiefs were the band that made the song I predict a riot, right?" England raised a brow.

"Yes…" India started snickering. "What?"

"Turns out they're helping clean up those riots they predicted," India laughed and England couldn't help but shake his head, why was India the most easily amused man on the planet? And why did England enjoy that irony about the riots?

England smiled a small smile, in light amusement and India looked over in relief.

"You'll be alright," India said, a statement, a declarative and England couldn't help but agree… he'd be alright…

**.**

**.**

**.**

**So sorry for not updating a lot recently my usual readers, BUT my darling Mother has suffered from a stroke over the last few months (she still is, but that's complicated so I won't get into that) and well there's just a lot going on at the moment, it's calmed down a lot at this moment which is why I wrote this (and this is actually, on those days when the riots were happening I wrote little bits and pieces on what was happening, just for fun and I decided to take what I had written back then and turn it into a Hetalia fanfic). But another big problem, is my darling friend who I confirm writing things with as in if it's a good idea, etc. has had problems getting on the internet to talk, so I haven't had her to sort my ideas with so… I haven't wanted to write something in case it turned out horrible. AS WELL I'm attempting to write a novel, not sure if it'll be any good but I'm hoping it is- would anyone actually want to read an original story by me, or?**

**Anyways… I think the fanfic kind of explains most of the events so I won't go in detail on the events that happened through the riot, but any questions do ask. Hope you all enjoyed!**

**(Also I heard people say they're taking down the M tag on fanfic? But then what am I to do with my mature fanfics?)**


End file.
